


A Life Misaligned With Normality

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Series: History Of Melancholia [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normal isn't normal, not for him. It's hard for Grantaire to deal with simple things like social situations when he can barely handle himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Misaligned With Normality

This morning Grantaire has agreed to join Enjolras for the meeting at the Café Musain. Regulars of the Musain know that the loft area upstairs unofficially belongs to the group of friends that jokingly call themselves Les Amis, and that every Thursday morning the area is commandeered for their weekly get-togethers, meetings for catching up, hanging out, and quite often, helping Enjolras with his various activist endeavours.  
   
It’s been a few weeks since Grantaire has come to a meeting, and although he’s reluctant to leave the house, he’s let Enjolras coax him to today’s gathering. After all, Les Amis are his friends too, and he knows they want to see him. Enjolras is collaborating with a worker’s rights organization to stage a protest, and he’s roped the rest of the Amis into helping him. So Grantaire allows himself to be bundled into the car in the morning, Enjolras’ hand resting on his knee. He spent the morning gearing himself up for social interaction, but there’s still a tension in his belly, crawling up to clutch at his chest. He flips on the radio to a random station, not listening to the words, just trying to find something to drown the anxiety skittering through his head and rolling inside his belly.  
   
“Hi guys!” Courfeyrac is, as usual, a giant ball of energy when they come in. There are running jokes throughout the group that he sucks up all the caffeine in the Musain without even drinking the coffee. He leaps onto Grantaire, practically hanging off him. Grantaire puts an arm around his enthusiastic friend’s shoulder to keep him from falling to the floor. “Grantaire, my friend! How are you! I haven’t seen you in a few weeks!”  
   
“I’m good, I’m good.” He puts on a smile and grins at Courfeyrac, who gets down from his hip and claps him on the shoulder before turning to Enjolras. The two of them are immediately sucked into gesture-filled conversation, and Grantaire turns away. His hands are shaking and his back feels hot, the nervous tension having moved from his belly up to his neck. He thought maybe preparing for all the human interaction in the morning would be enough, but apparently not. Hurriedly, he finds his way to a little round table towards the corner where he can see everything. Combeferre comes over to shake his hand once he’s done saying hello to Enjolras.  
   
“Hi, Grantaire,” he smiles softly, his grip gentle but firm, like everything else about him. “Welcome back.”  
   
Smile. Stretch lips over teeth. There we go. “Thanks. It’s nice to be back. It’s nice to see everyone.”  
   
“Will you help with our plans today?”  
   
Grantaire smirks again, this time jokingly. “Not sure if I’ve come quite that far, Combeferre. But I’ll try not to disrupt.”  
   
Combeferre looks kindly down at him and clasps his shoulder. “Really, it is nice to see you again.”  
   
He nods in response. “Thank you.”  
   
The rest of the group comes together quickly, waving to or hugging Grantaire in greeting and asking him how he is (good, always good) before claiming seats and engaging in conversation. Grantaire feels like the smile has been frozen on his face, an unnatural set of his lips that he’s sure looks painfully awkward. No one’s looking at him intently anymore, all distracted by each other and whatever current topics need discussion. He forces his lips to relax; a blank expression is good enough.  
   
Jehan sits down next to him and pulls out a notebook covered in flourishy writing. He gives Grantaire a quiet smile and then starts scribbling on a blank page. With a slight clearing of his throat, Enjolras stands up and begins to explain his plan for the protest, the goals and outlooks and ideals of the organization, the issues that need to be addressed, and the problems that might arise. Jehan pulls Grantaire’s arm towards him and begins to write and doodle on his palm and wrist. Following the movements of the pen, the cynic can see poetry blooming between the lines of his palm. He zones out, trying to focus on the feeling of the pen against his skin and the graceful movements of Enjolras, watching his lover’s hands move as he tries to distract himself from noticing just how many people are in the room.  
   
When Enjolras is done speaking, assignments are handed out and the group splits off into little clusters to work. Joly, Bossuet and Marius circle around a table near a plug so they can type on Marius’ slowly dying laptop. Feuilly and Bahorel drift towards Grantaire at the table, more inclined at the moment to horseplay than work, while Jehan pats Grantaire’s hand and wanders back to Courfeyrac.  
   
“Dude, when did you enter Pleasantville? Or did you acquire a time machine and go back to the fifties?” Bahorel asks, dropping into the chair next to Grantaire, who blinks up at him, caught off-guard.  
   
“What?”  
   
“Your clothes suck. Do you ever wear something that isn’t monochrome? Or jeans and t-shirts? Like, fucking ever?”  
   
Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Hey, I happen to like comfortable clothes that aren’t garish and offensive to the eyes. You’re almost as bad as Jehan sometimes, and that’s saying something.”  
   
Bahorel spreads the lapels of his leather jacket with a proud flourish to expose a glaringly orange v-neck shirt with a band of little white squares striping across the chest. It clashes horribly with the red-and-white striped waldo beanie that’s been shoved on his head. “My clothing choices are perfectly fine. I just like to express myself with my unique style.”  
   
Grantaire raises an eyebrow, wondering how Bahorel could ever equate the insanity he wears with taste or style. “Yes, well some of us prefer other forms of expression than terrible clothes with insane patterns. We don’t want to blind people whenever we walk into a room.”  
   
“Yeah, but you have no colour at all. Where is your colour?”  
   
“I must’ve left it at home.”  
   
“The colour, though!” Bahorel raises his arms and gestures to Grantaire’s body, his hands waving enthusiastically. “You need _some_ colour in your wardrobe. It’s hardly an outfit at all if I can’t see you once it gets past seven at night.”  
   
“You’re hilarious.”  
   
“No, really come on! What is this, war on chromatism? Jesus.”  
   
Grantaire snorts, making a face. “Shut up.”  
   
“I’ll shut up when you get better, less fucking boring clothes and stop looking like Elia Kazan’s wet dream.”  
   
“Fuck you, Elia Kazan was the shit.”  
   
“Yeah, maybe, but you still need some fucking colour in your outfits. Where is it?”  
   
Grantaire growls and punches him lightly on the arm. With a laugh, Bahorel grabs him round the waist, spilling them both out of their chairs and onto the ground, where they grapple and roll playfully. Grantaire head-butts Bahorel in the chest, which does nothing but illicit a slight “oomph” noise from the larger man. He squirms, but Bahorel is a solid weight on him, holding him to the floor.  
   
“Are you made of fucking stone?” Grantaire grunts, kneeing his opponent in the side in order to get a little leverage.  
   
“Yeah, my mother dipped me in the waters of the Styx. I can’t be defeated.” The grin on Bahorel’s face is wolfish, and he’s got an arm around Grantaire’s chest.  
   
“That also means you’re a whiney asshole with a rage problem, you know,” Grantaire counters, trying to get an arm free to elbow some soft spot.  
   
“Guys, stop it.” Feuilly groans from above them. They’re scrapping practically under the table, rolling over and sticking limbs into Feuilly’s feet as they play-fight.  
   
“Never! I am the undefeated!” They’ve twisted themselves into a knot, and Bahorel’s got a good hold on Grantaire as he wiggles and kicks to get out of the grip.  
   
Above them, Feuilly sighs exasperatedly and kicks Bahorel between the shoulder blades. “Quit it! You’re on my feet! I need those.”  
   
Bahorel abandons Grantaire, dropping him to the floor—which isn’t much of a distance, since he was basically on his back in the first place—and lunges for the redhead, yanking him to the ground to wrestle with him instead. Luckily, violence is akin to a kiss on the cheek in Feuilly and Bahorel’s relationship, so Feuilly simply grabs Bahorel in a headlock and picks up where Grantaire has left off, albeit in a much more competent manner. Grantaire pulls himself up onto his chair again, pushing hair out of his face and straightening his clothes. Enjolras glances at him from across the room, a question on his face, and he shrugs, adrenaline already fading from his veins. Feuilly and Bahorel continue to grapple playfully as the others ignore them, until they’re just lying on the floor panting, Bahorel sprawled on top of Feuilly’s lanky form, both of their eyes closed.  
   
Across the room, Enjolras calls Courfeyrac over, interrupting his and Jehan’s loving little whispers, stealing the enthusiastic lover away to sit with him and Combeferre. Combeferre and Enjolras are leaning against each other as they pore over flyers and pamphlets and plans. Courfeyrac hooks his arms around their shoulders with an enthusiastic greeting before swinging off to flop down in his own seat, chin on his hands as he bends his head toward the papers on the table. Jehan, having been abandoned, watches them deliberate for a moment before wandering back towards Grantaire. Halfway there, Feuilly and Bahorel’s wrestling match-turned-cuddle catches his eye.  
   
“Well this looks like a nice place to rest. Mind if I join?” He asks with an impish look on his face, before immediately flopping down on top of Bahorel, bouncing a little as Bahorel starts to laugh.  
   
“Hi, Jehan. How’s it going?”  
   
“You guys are going to kill me!” Feuilly wheezes, though he’s laughing too. “Bahorel is literally a brick house and Jehan, you’re tiny but you’re like lead.”  
   
“I love you too,” Jehan croons, leaning over Bahorel’s shoulder to look down at his friend. Feuilly wriggles an arm out and reaches over Bahorel’s head to flick Jehan’s ear. Jehan grins and makes a kissy face, which Feuilly returns with a smirk.  
   
“Hey now, you’re encroaching on my territory,” Bahorel warns, bouncing his body a little to jostle the poet, which makes Feuilly grunt as the weight on his chest shifts.  
   
“I saw him first!”  
   
“You did not!”  
   
“He did, you know. We had a conversation about the poetry of A.E. Housman about half an hour before you came barging in proclaiming that I needed to be the Amis’ token ginger.”  
   
Bahorel grumbles, “Fine,” before rolling to the side, dumping Jehan onto the floor and releasing Feuilly before they’re both grabbed again and tickled mercilessly.  
   
Grantaire watches the exchange from his seat, and feels his lips twitch into a smile as Bahorel reduces his two friends to a squirming pile of giggles. He’s out of practice, and smiling naturally feels weird, but pleasant. Watching the commotion on the floor, he feels lighter than he has in days, and it’s nice. The stone in his stomach is smaller, the empty spaces between his organs less noticeable. His friends make him happier, even if social situations make him far more nervous and shaky than should be allowed. Jehan and Feuilly are still laughing; Grantaire’s smile is still on his face without him having to force it there.  
   
There’s a soft thump as someone drops into the chair beside him, and he turns to find Marius shifting to get comfortable in his seat.  
   
“Hi, Marius.” He was the only one who hadn’t said hello to Grantaire when he got there; they aren’t very close. It doesn’t bother him. One less difficult social interaction was a blessing.  
   
“Hey.” Marius fidgets with the edge of his coat. He’s always fidgeting, constantly twisting his fingers around each other or into his clothes or tapping out rhythms on tabletops. “I was just wondering, you know—why haven’t you come to the meetings in a while? You came all the time and then suddenly you just stopped.”  
   
Grantaire feels his smile slide off his lips and fall to the floor. Tension bubbles in his stomach, clenching at his lungs. His shoulders hurt again. Suddenly he can feel the weight of the lines on his face, the heavy shadows under his eyes, the lump of indescribably melancholy caught in his throat. Why wasn’t he at the meetings? What does he say?  
   
 _Because I’m horribly depressed and nothing I try can make me happy and this won’t—can’t—be fixed._  
   
 _Because I spent three whole weeks in bed, being buffeted between emptiness and too many thoughts._  
   
 _Because usually all I want to do is curl up on the floor or in bed and hide from the world that I can’t handle._  
   
 _Because I think terrible things._  
   
 _Have you ever wondered what it would be like to put your head through a window pane? To stick your hand in the pot of boiling water that you’re about to make spaghetti in? To swerve your car straight into oncoming traffic?_  
   
 _Because there’s an empty darkness inside me and it’s going to fucking swallow me. I don’t care how dramatic that sounds because it’s the truth and it’s agony._  
   
 _Because my entire body aches most days and my head is full of static and it hurts to talk to people and hurts even more to look them in the eyes and try to smile._  
   
He shrugs one shoulder and looks down at the table, running a thumbnail along a groove scratched deeply into the wood. “I had other things to do.”  
   
“Oh, okay.” Marius nods agreeably, fingers tapping out an imaginary rhythm on his thighs. “I was just wondering. Jehan seemed worried when he saw you weren’t there, that’s all.”  
   
“Jehan worries about everyone every second they’re not in front of his face. You get used to it.” But the good mood that had taken him earlier is gone, replaced again by the ache and a bone-deep exhaustion. Suddenly, he just wants to go home.  
   
They sit there in awkward silence, and Grantaire fights the urge to get up and lock himself in the toilet where it’s quiet and he can be alone. Instead, he puts his chin in his hands and looks toward Enjolras and his two lieutenants, who seem to be wrapping things up. Relief washes over him at the sight of Enjolras gathering his papers together and tapping the edges against the table to straighten them out. He watches Enjolras stand up, clearing his throat, and everyone’s faces immediately turn to him.  
   
“Okay, guys, I’ll email you next week’s itinerary once I type up what we’ve come up with. Till then, you know what you’ve been assigned.” He points at Feuilly and Bahorel, who are now sitting cross-legged on the floor. “I assume you two will work on it at home? Good. Well, the official meeting is adjourned, then.”  
   
Grantaire lets out a quiet whoosh of air as Marius gets up to pack up his things. He watches Enjolras talking with others, waiting until things have settled enough for them to go home.  
   
“Grantaire?” Jehan is standing next to him, leaning one hand on the back of his chair.  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“Listen, I just wanted to see how you were doing. I was worried about you these past couple of weeks. Are you all right now?” There’s worry in the poet’s eyes, the ever-present need to care, the empathy of an artist with a heart of flowers. But he can’t tell his friend that everything is perfect; it’s too much of a lie.  
   
“I’m-I’m better.” _Maybe_ he’s better. He wishes he were better. He’s not sure, and honestly doesn’t know how to quantify ‘better’ at the moment. He’s not taking a razor to his arms, if that’s what Jehan is asking. But that’s because it didn’t really make anything better when he did try, and now Enjolras has hidden all of them anyway.  
   
“That’s good.” Jehan kisses him on the cheek, a hand on his shoulder. “We all care about you, you know.”  
   
“I know.” _Them_ caring is not the problem. He knows they care. That’s not really going to make a difference to the chemical makeup of his brain. This conversation is terribly awkward; Grantaire can feel himself starting to shake again, and it’s all too much. His body is feeling hot, and he wants to shrink and curl into a ball. Too much talking, too many questions, too many people for too long. Hurriedly, he excuses himself from Jehan and goes to Enjolras, touching him lightly on the shoulder. When Enjolras looks to Grantaire, his expression slides from conversational enthusiasm to concerned understanding, and he nods once.  
   
“Sorry, but we really do need to go. Email me if you have questions, of course. Combeferre, I’ll send you the mock-up for the pamphlet once I’ve finished it.” He slings his backpack over one shoulder and turns to put a hand against Grantaire’s back. “Bye, guys.”  
   
They leave in a chorus of cheerful goodbyes. The rest of the Amis will probably stick around to hang out for another few hours, but even just these few hours have been too much for Grantaire to handle. He drops tiredly into his seat in the car and slams the door shut, putting a hand over his face. Enjolras slides into the driver’s seat and waits wordlessly for him to stop shaking so hard. Grantaire sucks in a deep trembling breath and sits back against the seat. He wishes it wasn’t so _goddamn_ difficult to just have a normal day. They drive home in silence, but Enjolras’ hand is rubbing circles into Grantaire’s leg. There isn’t much else to do in the way of comfort.  
   
Grantaire collapses onto his half of the bed without taking off his shoes, turning onto his side to stare at the wall. The spaces between his organs creak with emptiness. Holding up the pretence of cheerfulness and amicability and _normality_ when he’s around his friends is absolutely exhausting and all he wants to do is lie there in silence. There’s a splotch of grey on the wall, probably a smudge of charcoal, and he fixes his gaze on that and just wishes everything would _stop_ for a second. His head is buzzing with thoughts while simultaneously full of static numbness and he doesn’t want either and he hates this. He feels weighed down by everything for no reason at all. He hears footsteps into the room but doesn’t turn towards the sound or react when a body blocks his view. Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and he wants to shove him away just as much as he wants to grab him and cling to him. He just wants to be alone, but he wants to know there’s someone there. It’s a bizarre push-pull of emotions and wants, just like the rest of his life. It all flattens him with its weight.  
   
Enjolras watches Grantaire make a beeline to the bedroom, but doesn’t follow. He puts his backpack down on the coffee table and kicks his shoes into the corner by the door. Going into the small kitchen, he chugs a glass of water, then pours another one and heads down the hall to the dimly lit bedroom. Grantaire is lying on his side of the bed, eyes distant. Enjolras puts the glass of water down on the bedside table and runs a gentle hand through Grantaire’s hair, wishing he could do something to help. He feels so helpless most of the time, watching his lover stuck inside his own head. He wishes just loving him could fix it, could change something, but he’s not an idiot. He knows that’s not how depression works, not how anything works.  
   
Sighing quietly, he withdraws his hand and moves away. He kneels down at the foot of the bed and unlaces Grantaire’s shoes, gripping his ankles gently to slide them off his feet and settling them next to the bed. Then he pulls a soft plush blanket from the closet—he knows Grantaire isn’t going to want to move from where he is on top of the sheets—and covers him with it, saying nothing as Grantaire grasps the edge and pulls it up to his chin without breaking his dull-eyed gaze at the wall. Tenderly, he runs a hand along his lover’s covered leg and goes out into the living room to work on his laptop on the sofa, leaving the door to the bedroom open. He knows Grantaire wants to be alone, but he doesn’t want to be _that_ alone, and Enjolras doesn’t want him to be, either. He just wants him to have something to hold on to as they try to navigate this darkness together.


End file.
